More Than A Man
by pyro-technic242
Summary: Heroics was my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; the one thing I wanted to achieve at any cost. Getting into U.A, getting my hero license; that was the dream I worked toward making a reality every day. But of course, it wasn't going to be easy for me; indeed, it was going to be even harder for me than it would be for the average teenager. After all, I was Quirkless.


_Chapter One: Nashiro Kurogane- Introduction_

_Hanami_ had alighted upon Japan. The subtle scent of the cherry blossoms was invigorating and reflexively brought a smile on the faces of those stopping to seek it out. A pink carpet of _sakura_ was laid out on the ground, providing a lush contrast against the green grass and black asphalt. Most of the public had taken advantage of the beautiful weather and inviting pink blossoms to spend time picnicking with friends and family or enjoy a warm bottle of _sake _in the cool, fragrant breeze. Children could be seen wandering around and mingling, their innocent laughter somehow not disturbing the tranquillity permeating the atmosphere but only adding to it.

Today, April the second, was my birthday, which meant a break from _dojo_ activity and a chance to relax and do what I wanted. So far, the only thing I had done was to cook some eggs for breakfast before travelling out of the house to do…something. I didn't know quite yet what I wanted to do, but this was better than rereading the tons of books I had at home. Seriously, besides hero training, watching anime, eating and sleeping, the only thing I did was read. I didn't think you would find a stranger bookshelf in Musutafu than my own, where Hesse rubbed shoulders with Ishiguro and Kirino sat comfortably wedged against Kafka. It was a Sunday, which meant no school, and as I'd finished all my (relevant) assignments on Friday, I could do what I wanted without worrying about the consequences.

All I had received for my birthday was a "Happy birthday, sweetie!" from my mom along with a light hug, which was more than enough.

I caught sight of a man in a loose white shirt boiling some yomogi dango and putting it on some paper plates to serve, and my mouth watered involuntarily. However, the image of my sensei's stern visage banished any temptation I had for the sweet snack, and turning away from the delicious sight was an easy task. Bad enough that I'd taken that ice cream last week…sensei had forgiven me then, but today he was not going to tolerate any sugar intake on my part, and that included birthday cake. As punishment for the ice cream, he had said, the cake would have to wait until I got into hero school, and the entrance exam wasn't until next week. So, I could do what I wanted…except eat sugar, I amended wryly.

I wasn't hungry anyway; the poached eggs I'd cooked were enough to satiate me for the time being. An hour of walking around would probably change that since my metabolism, after almost ten years of martial training, was very high. Mom often joked that if people looked at our food bill, they'd assume Dad was still around. Which he wasn't. He hadn't been since forever. Not that he was a deadbeat or anything; he'd just got really sick one day and he died, leaving my mom heartbroken and with a baby growing in her belly.

A scowl marred my face. Why was I thinking of Dad? I'd never known the man anyway, and Mom never spoke of him except in casual references. For example, when I'd come back from a training session (read: beatdown) from sensei, Mom had handed me a towel and some antiseptic while remarking that I was the spitting image of my father. Having seen pictures of him before, I was inclined to agree. I had his lean face, his silvery-white eyes (hence my given name, Nashiro), his broad shoulders and large hands. The only notable characteristic I had inherited from my mother was hair colour; both of us had a mess of black on our scalps, whereas my dad's hair was a slightly more sombre brown.

It was from Dad that I'd acquired my reading habit; indeed, many of the books I now treasured lovingly in my bookshelves had been inherited from his. It had been from his bookshelf that I'd read my first piece of genuine Japanese literature (I Am A Cat, by Natsume Souseki). It had been from his bookshelf that I'd read my first book written by a foreigner (Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley). It had been from his bookshelf that I'd travelled to places far and wide, all the while in the comfort of my room. There were few things more pleasurable than curling up on a beanbag, a steaming cup of coffee beside me and a book in my hand. It was especially fortunate that I'd picked up this habit, as I wasn't very social and would have no doubt spent much of life in loneliness had I not started reading.

However, as much as I loved books and literature, they would always come second to my primary passion; a career that most kids my age dreamed of succeeding at, but rarely did.

Heroics. The reason I pushed myself past my limits every day, the reason I'd begged sensei to take me up in his tutelage when I was seven, the reason I even bothered to keep my grades at a respectable level. Heroics was my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; the one thing I wanted to achieve at any cost. Getting into U.A, getting my hero license; that was the dream I worked toward making a reality every day.

But of course, it wasn't going to be easy for me; indeed, it was going to be even harder for me than it would be for the average teenager. After all, I was Quirkless.

* * *

_Seven years before today, a boy prostrates himself before a man and begs him to teach him the art of fighting._

_The boy is Quirkless; a person who hasn't just lost the genetic lottery but has never had the chance to participate in it. He is fatherless, friendless, tormented by bullies and almost completely alone in this world. His mother and his fervent desire to become a hero are his only saving graces; what keep him from jumping off a building and ending his miserable existence._

_The man watches him unemotionally, chewing on a ripe banana. By virtue of his Quirk, his muscular body is covered with a fine set of long, white hairs. His hands, feet and face are the only places free of this fur, and have been browned and calloused by constant toil and training. His eyebrows are thick and his lips are pink, smooth and puffy, to the point where the man looks more a monkey than a human. A handsome staff, golden-brown in colour, rests on his shoulder. He is Sun Wukong, former hero and current master of the Ougonshoku-saru Dojo._

_The reason the boy has come to him is that Wukong is a maverick. Unlike many other heroes-turned-teachers, he does not care whether his students have a Quirk or not. He treats every student the same way and his dojo is completely free of prejudice and bias. However, while Wukong does not make concessions to those with powerful Quirks, he is harsh, and any student who earns his ire is sure to be expelled. He has not taken a new student in almost two years, and only about three others learn from him now. _

_Please, the boy says, head firmly on the ground._

_Wukong remains stoic. Why do you wish to come under my tutelage, he asks, even after hearing of my reputation?_

_The boy looks up then, and the fire in his eyes, the __**determination**__ blazing within, is enough to startle him. I want to be a hero, and Wukong-san is a maverick who does not care about Quirks and lack thereof. You fight with technique and not just your Quirk. If anyone can train me to be a hero it is Wukong-san._

_Wukong is mildly impressed. This child has a brain and seems committed. Yet he has misjudged students before and is not going to take that risk anymore._

_And why should I train you to be a hero, child?_

_Because I'm willing to give everything I have to become one. Because I'll push myself beyond my limits to get stronger. So please, Wukong-sensei, please give me a chance!_

_Just words! Words that you'll forget about the instant I start training you, taunts the former hero._

_That may be, admits the boy, yet his sombre tone does nothing to abate the fire in his irises. But I'm just asking for a chance. Give me one chance and I'll become the best hero. Not just some hick who's in it for the popularity. The __**best**__ hero; the hero who saves people with a smile on his face! I don't care if I don't have a Quirk! I want to help people, save them when their lives are in danger and win against the villains who threaten them! If I don't live up to these words you can throw me out at any time!_

_It will be hard, cautions Wukong, yet his throat is tight at the sheer passion the child seems to be exuding. I am not a kind teacher. I will break you and keep breaking. The metamorphosis you must undergo to condition your body shall be long and extremely difficult._

_I'm prepared for that, insists the boy. Please Wukong-san, give me a chance! Just one chance!_

_And that is enough. Raise your head, says the maverick, clenching his jaw to keep the tears from falling. Tomorrow, at six o'clock, come here. Don't be late._

_And the boy smiles, bright and happy. I won't disappoint you, Wukong-_sensei_!_

* * *

I smiled a little at the memory. Wukong-sensei had trained me relentlessly, pushing me to my limits and then pushing me further. More than once I'd passed out from sheer exhaustion- just fallen over onto the _tatami_ mats and starting to snore. Sensei had simply prodded me awake, forced some energy drink in me and restarted his gruelling training. The other students hadn't been able to keep up and had left the dojo, leaving me as his sole student. This didn't bother either of us, as Wukong-sensei hadn't shown any faith in them from the start, and me being his only student meant that he could focus his attention purely on me.

He had cautioned me more than once; "_Boy, as you are well aware already, you do not possess a Quirk. That is not your fault, but because of that, the only weapon you can completely rely on is your body. You must train twice as hard, thrice as hard, sometimes even four times as hard even to get a fraction of the same acknowledgement those with powerful Quirks do. I do not approve of this Quirk-based judgement system, yet it is the one we must abide by. However, the doors of the Ougonshoku-saru Dojo shall always be open to anyone wishing to learn the tenets of combat, Quirkless or no._"

He'd kept his word, too.

And as brutal as his training was, I was able to see the results extremely quickly. Every muscle in my body had already started to stand out upon my turning nine and had only continued to grow and define themselves as time passed. Hard planes of muscle now held firm beneath a covering of skin stretched tight like rubber. I could now run half-marathons without breaking a sweat, could swing several kilograms of weight around like they were nothing and could break concrete blocks with my bare hands. In other words, my body was stronger than most other kids my age, and most _adults_ as well. However, as a reminder not to get arrogant about the strength I'd gained, Wukong-sensei would invite me to spar every Sunday, and end up kicking my ass without fail.

Trust me. Nothing tamps a rising ego faster than a venerable old retiree flinging you about like a ragdoll until you look as if you were born with blue and black skin, your lunch has long since exited your stomach, and you can't tell which way is up. This was all done while he casually ate a banana, which only added to the humiliation factor.

(But on the plus side, I'd got him to ditch the banana a past couple of times.)

Chuckling at the memory of Wukong-sensei throwing away his banana in chagrin before fighting me using both of his hands, I turned a corner and walked away from the sakura trees. The crowd thinned slowly, the public making its way to the sight of the cherry blossom. This continued until I was alone, the sound of my rubber sandals tapping against the stone pavement eerily loud without the white noise of hundreds of chattering voices.

My lessons with Wukong-sensei were not limited to unarmed combat. They had been at first, of course, when putting a weapon in the hands of a seven-year-old would spell disaster. After about three years of training me in the art of unarmed combat, Wukong-sensei started his weapons course, which meant pushing a weapon in my hand and beating me up with a bigger version of the same weapon.

Much to his consternation, I was notoriously bad with most of the weapons he favoured. While I was passably good with the _tonfa_, I would always end up smacking myself on the head with the _nunchaku_, the quarterstaff was slow and fumbling in my large hands, and the less said about the mace the better.

My true talents lied with the sword. The _katana_, the _wakizashi_, the _chokuto_. While Wukong-sensei was a master with the staffs and sticks, he was less so with the sword. This was what led to me meeting his sister, the self-proclaimed Mistress of the Blades.

She wasn't a hero like her brother, but she could match him blow-for-blow. If Wukong-sensei was an acrobat, twirling his huge staff to unleash either a deadly strike to the head or propel himself up into the air for a kick, then she was a dancer, swirling around with blade in hand to deliver either a slash or a block, flowing into her next move with poise and grace almost like a delicate silver tornado. It was from her that I learned my next fighting style- the art of swords, _kenjutsu_, and from her that I got the idea for my Original Sword Techniques.

* * *

_Move, move, move!_

_The boy grimaces, barely fending off a flurry of blows from the excited Mistress of the Blades with his bokken. He has been fighting her off for the past two hours, and his arms feel like leaden weights with hot iron poles driven into them._

_Her name is Nezha, and she is Wukong-sensei's sister. Three years after his debut class with his arboreal sensei, she has come to instruct him in the art of using swords, kenjutsu. Initially, he had been hesitant to learn from another sensei only three years after Sun Wukong accepting him into his fold, but upon assurances from both of them that this was simply another route of combat he could explore, he had been ready and raring to start learning._

_Much to Nezha's (and his own) surprise, he had picked up the basic slashes and strikes with ease. By the month, he had become fairly adept at wielding a bokken (a wooden katana) using only one hand, leaving the other free for punches or hand-to-hand blocks. This had excited her to the point where she had started training him for real, which meant pulling him aside even when he was in the middle of a training session with Wukong-sensei to teach him sword techniques._

_Another strike from Nezha sends his sword skittering to the tatami floor. However, he is not stupid enough to assume that the bout is over just because of that. Ducking a slash from the woman's thankfully wooden blade (that would have otherwise concussed him into unconsciousness), he rolls and comes up for a flying spin kick. She dodges it easily and comes for a jab while he is still mid-air. Cursing inwardly, he lands just in time to twist away from the blow._

_A few steps away from the duelling ground, Sun Wukong chews meditatively on a banana, sitting comfortably in a lotus pose with his staff in hand. He watches his ten-year-old student attempt to pick up his sword, and his eyes widen in shock as the boy sidesteps Nezha with ease, so fast that his frame is blurred._

_What sort of technique is that? The boy had no doubt made use of rapid, radical footwork to fool his opponent into thinking that he was going one way and instead going in the opposite direction. Not unlike a crossover in basketball. But this is not a skill he has ever taught him. How had he learned it? Had his sister taught him how to create such an effect?_

_Nezha blinks in confusion as the boy picks up his sword and thrusts it at her from behind. But her monkey instincts are sharp thanks to her Quirk, and she leaps high above the approaching blade and lands with her sword at the boy's throat._

_You're dead, states Nezha plainly._

_The boy gulps and admits defeat. I-I give._

_Sun Wukong gets up and asks his student about the technique he had used to dodge his sister and pick up his sword. Nezha grins and answers instead. While she lacks his blatantly simian features- his white fur, his puffed mouth- her grin is wide and full of teeth, reminding him ostensibly of an orangutan. I had the boy try and make up his own sword techniques. So far, this is his fourth._

_Wukong nearly chokes on his banana. His fourth!?_

_Th-the Fourth Secret Sword, Shinkirou, the boy offers shyly. It takes advantage of the blind spot in one's eye to make it seem as if I've disappeared when in reality I've just gone behind my opponent. But my footwork isn't fast enough to make it seem like I've disappeared…it's more like my frame blurs instead._

_Wukong nods slowly. Shinkirou…the _Mirage Wolf_. An apt name for a technique that would be fearsome once completed._

_Should we increase your leg training, I wonder, muses Nezha, causing the boy to groan quietly. Nezha-sensei, if I devote any more time to my legs, I won't be able to refine my other skills-_

_But the woman is no longer listening, dragging him off his feet by gripping his arm. For such a lanky person, her long arms have surprising strength in them. Come! One hundred squats! Then two hundred lunges!_

_Wukong-sensei, help! The boy's pleading is lost on him. Sun Wukong only offers a commiserating smirk as his protesting protégé is hauled off._

_His own sword techniques, eh?_

* * *

For a Quirkless person to defeat someone with a Quirk, he must break past his limits to become more than a human; more than the person he originally was. That was the philosophy I ingrained within myself at the age of ten, when I started thinking up my Original Sword Techniques.

Come today, I had mastered seven. Considering the fact that I was now fifteen, and I had come up with my Sword Techniques when I was ten, the number of techniques I had mastered seemed deplorably low. But in my defence, they were all extremely difficult to pull off, and still are. Take, for example, the Third Secret Sword, Madoka. It involves receiving an impact with my sword and using that impact to spin in a circle, then striking the opponent with the same force that I had received earlier. That is why I named it Madoka, which means _Circle_.

Can you imagine the pinpoint timing necessary to receive an impact and then using it to spin in a circle? If I made a mistake, either my blade would break or I'd end up looking like an extremely foolish ballerina completely open to attack. Sometimes even both. And during the spin, if I tensed the wrong muscle, chances that it would implode due to the strain were high. I learned that the hard way.

Thank God Nezha-sensei and Wukong-sensei had forced me to stick with the Sword Techniques- now that I'd mastered them, or most of them anyway after five long years, I had something only I could pull off; that I could fall back upon when I was in a pinch. Other heroes had their Quirks; I had my physical fitness and my Original Sword Techniques. And it wasn't as if I had stopped thinking about ways to improve my techniques or coming up with new ones- but if I explained those now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?

Suddenly, a massive explosion radiated from behind me, a burst of light and heat nearly sweeping me off my feet. Turning in alarm, I caught sight of a gigantic man roaring in anger as he slammed a fist into a nearby building. From the way tiny black wisps seemed to be darting around him to strike and restrain him, I surmised that heroes had already shown up to restrain the villain.

My alarm turning into excitement, I rushed toward the scene. From the size of the villain relative to the nearby skyscrapers, I could tell he wasn't too far away. Reaching him would mean an easy two kilometres run at worst. To pass up the chance to see real heroes in action was one that I, as an aspiring hero-to-be, could hardly pass up.

A few minutes later, the heroes were much more visible, and a crowd had already gathered to watch the spectacle. I peered in fascination as a hero with incredibly muscular arms and wearing a blue bodysuit that exposed his well-defined abdominals held the giant in place by wrapping his arms around his waist, and another hero wearing a fireman's outfit put out the flames on the nearby buildings with his hose-like arms.

The only hero I recognized out of those there, however, was the third one.

The up-and-coming star, Kamui Woods, already at rank twenty-two despite not having been a hero for more than five years. His arm elongated into several roots, no doubt as a setup for his special move, the Lacquered Chains Prison-

"CANYON CANNON!" yelled a blonde heroine, flying out of nowhere and nailing the man in the face with an impressive kick. While the man was a giant, having a few feet over even the muscular hero in the blue costume, this lady made him look like a child's doll in comparison. She was over twenty metres tall, with a cocky grin on her face and dressed in a tight-fitting purple-and-tan bodysuit with a purple face-mask and horns to match. "Today's my debut!" she cried. "Pleased to meet you all! You can call me Mount Lady!"

Kamui Woods looked consternated at having his target snatched away like that (and admittedly a little foolish considering he hadn't yet retracted the roots bulging from his arm), but to his credit he said nothing, only retracting his Lacquered Chains Prison and leaping downward to secure the unconscious villain. Mount Lady shrunk back to normal size and provided smiles and waves in an obvious attempt at securing popularity, a bid that left me feeling a little bemused.

It was clearly working, however. The crowd was responding to the waving heroine with platitudes and shouts of admiration. Each one only broadened the arrogant smile on her face, and only sharpened my negative feelings about the entire situation. The heroine had effectively stolen Kamui's thunder to try and broaden her own appeal. Her actions had been selfish, yet the crowd was simply lapping it up. What sort of a hero did that? While yes, she had neutralized the villain, she had done so over the head of a much more experienced hero who would have resolved the situation with just as much, or more, efficiency as she. Why would she do something like that only to increase her own standing with the public?

This, I reflected with a scowl, was probably how heroics as an industry worked. Competition among heroes to try and further their own popularity and provide entertainment to the masses by subduing villains in flashy and (more often than not) impractical ways. Prioritizing themselves, in short, over the civilians. Speaking of, what if that villain had landed on a civilian? Hell, even the building that the villain had smashed would cost plenty in property damage.

Maybe she would learn soon, I commiserated. She was just a new hero; she had no experience, only confidence under her belt.

A voice growled out next to me. "Fakes…every single one of them, fakes!"

I turned in surprise. A man with a shock of tangled black hair, red eyes and a sharp triangular face glared at Mount Lady with unmistakable hatred. His build was noticeably muscular despite the baggy shirt he wore and he walked with a distinct hunch. However, what chilled me about his appearance the most was his nose- or lack thereof.

He turned towards me, and I was stricken with fear at the rabid intensity behind those eyes. "You recognize it too, don't you?" he rasped hauntingly. "You _saw_ that fake in the purple costume. How she, instead of staying out of the way, took an opportunity only with herself in mind. That self-centred woman _cannot_ be called a hero! She is but a fake that must be cut down to preserve the coming of a new society!"

I couldn't respond. The dark fire in those red eyes had stolen my ability to speak.

He humphed, turning away abruptly and leaving.

With his malevolent presence gone, I shook my head in confusion.

What had that been all about?

* * *

"Happy birthday, Shiro-chan!"

I stood dumbstruck at my house's doorstep as my mom twisted one of those large cylindrical party poppers. After much effort, it exploded and confetti rained over me in colourful sheets.

"Wh-what's going on?" Mom was grinning like a cat, with Nezha-sensei and Wukong-sensei standing behind her. Nezha-sensei was wearing her usual simian smile, whilst Wukong-sensei's face was his usual stone mask. It provided a sharp contradiction to the party-hat he was wearing on his head.

"Oh Nashiro, it's your birthday," said Nezha. "These things only come once a year you know. You gotta celebrate them whenever they come about." With that, she glomped me in a hug. While I usually didn't like being hugged by anyone except mom, I let it slide.

After she let me go, I looked around at the arrangement in wonder. There were balloons taped to the walls in blue, black and white- my favourite colours. The dinner table was groaning under the weight of several dishes- ramen, kakiage, hamburgers, and fruit salad. And lastly, the wall over the dinner table was boasting a large black banner that read 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY NASHIRO' in blue kanji. "This…is amazing." I fought to keep my voice steady.

Wukong-sensei came over next. He didn't try to hug me like his sister had (his six-foot stature aside, that would have been _extremely_ awkward), instead opting to hold out his mottled hand for a shake. "Happy birthday, Nashiro." I took his hand and shook it firmly.

"Considering birthday cake isn't allowed until Shiro-chan passes the U. A heroics exam," said Mom with a teasing lilt to her voice, "fruit salad was the only acceptable dessert I could think of. What do you think Shiro-chan? It has all of your favourites."

I peered at the large white platter and found that Mom was right. Apples, sectioned into several small pieces, glistened redly against the violet blueberries gleaming like little amethysts. To my surprise, I could recognize the sunset-orange hue of the persimmon in the salad, even though they weren't supposed to be in season. What was most astonishing though, was the strawberries.

Or more specifically, what _kind_ of strawberry was present there.

"Y-you got me a _Hatsukoi-no-Kaori_?!" I yelled in shock. These white strawberries were the rarest and sweetest Japan had to offer during _hanami_, each valued at a staggering one thousand yen at _least_. They could go up to ten times that amount! Delicious and refreshing, with ample amounts of sweet flesh available to eat with every strawberry, it was no wonder that they were called the Scent of First Love. They were an extremely popular gift for loved ones and were exclusive to Japan.

My mom smiled widely. "Anything for my dear Shiro-chan," she said tenderly.

See, this was why I considered my mom to be the nicest person in the world. She showed she cared by her actions, not simply words. If I was in a bad mood, a plate of eggs and rice lightly seasoned with salt and chilli would appear in front of me. If at night I would come back injured and dead tired from a spar with Wukong-sensei, she would guide me to a hot bath and use her Quirk to lull me to sleep in bed.

She had also been the one to tell me that I could become a Hero, no matter what anyone else said. When others had said, "No, you can't," my mom had said, "Yes, you can." She had been the one to encourage me to go to Wukong-sensei, she had been the one to tirelessly support my seemingly impossible dreams, and she was one of the main reasons; or maybe even the only reason I was the person I was today.

I was so overwhelmed that I hugged her. While I normally didn't initiate physical contact, today had driven all of that from my mind.

A polite cough sounding out from behind us made me let go with alacrity. Wukong-sensei was standing behind us, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Ahem, Nashiro," he began. "Before we start on this magnificent layout your mom has prepared, I would like to present you with a gift to commemorate this happy occasion."

I blinked. "Wukong-sensei, you got me a gift?"

The master nodded. "I wanted to give you something that would serve you well at your time in hero school, whichever it may be. And we all know by now how talented you are with the katana. Therefore, I have decided to give you…this."

Nezha handed him a long, curved tube wrapped carefully in white paper. Sun Wukong took it slowly and began unwinding the paper with great reverence. When the paper was off, a handsome sword remained in his hands, sheathed in black lacquer and having a simple black handle and grip, with a rounded pommel and square hilt.

My jaw went slack as he unsheathed the blade.

It was a beautiful weapon, with a perfect, transverse _hamon_ cutting a gentle line between the jet-black spine of the _katana_ and the silvery-grey cutting edge. It lacked any sort of ceremonial décor or any fancy design- this was the weapon of a true warrior.

Engraved on the base of the sword were the characters 陰鉄. Intetsu, or _Shadow_ _Iron_. A fitting name for a blade that was as black as midnight and as beautiful as the stars visible during that time.

"This…sensei, I don't know what to say." I fought not to let my voice tremble as he presented the re-sheathed blade to me. I received it with both hands and bowed low.

Wukong-sensei and Nezha simply gave small smiles, while my mother beckoned at me to let her hold the blade and admire it as well.

"By the way, I checked U.A's entrance exam criteria," said Nezha-sensei casually, "and I saw that they have now allowed bladed weapons."

"About time," grunted Wukong-sensei. "While I do not personally use swords, they are no more dangerous than a powerful Quirk. Had I been a member of U.A's faculty I would have allowed the use of swords much before now."

Unable to resist, I took Intetsu back from my mom and unsheathed it gently. The sight of the black-and-silver blade was riveting to my eyes. Soon, I would be wielding this blade against whatever U.A's entrance exam would be throwing at me, and presumably against whatever it would continue to throw at me if and when I passed the exam.

"On that note," continued Nezha, "Nashiro, are you _sure_ you don't want _aniki_ to submit a letter of recommendation on your behalf?"

She had broached the topic a few weeks ago when we'd learned exactly how biased the exam was to those with powerful Quirks, and my response now was the same that it had been then.

"I'm sure. I've made up my mind on this."

My mom looked troubled as well. "Shiro-chan, isn't the entrance exam destroying robots or something of that sort?"

"That's right," Wukong-sensei answered before I could. "For someone like Nashiro, who fights with his body instead of a Quirk, the test is…shall we say, _ill-suited_? But as a potential Quirkless hero, he shall face similar hardships throughout his life. If he is to take on the challenge of becoming a hero without a Quirk, he will have to contend with challenges that people with Quirks shall not. I have tried to help him with these challenges by having Nezha train him alongside me, giving him a grounding in _kenjutsu_ as well as unarmed fighting. Now, how well he does in hero school depends on how he will continue to develop and use the skill he has gained to overcome the hardships he will encounter."

"Do you think he can do it?" asked mother calmly.

Wukong-sensei smiled just slightly. "Madam, had the answer to your question been no, I would have thrown him out of my dojo a long time ago."

"That, or he would have quit," added Nezha-sensei, her smile wide and full of teeth.

I grinned. Praise from either sensei did not come lightly and I relished it every time it came toward me.

"And on that note, let us begin lunch!" My mother opened a bright yellow tureen and a tantalizing smell of curry and vegetables filled the air. My mouth watered reflexively as I made for the bathroom to wash my hands, and returned to Nezha and Wukong-sensei helping themselves to kakiage, ramen and curry. I sat down, and mother poured me a bowl of ramen and set it in front of me along with a bit of kakiage and a hamburger.

I smiled and joined my palms together. "_Itadakimasu_."

* * *

_Looking back on that day, all I can do is smile in a wry fashion. Because while I was happily munching on hamburgers and appreciatively slurping up chicken ramen, I was completely unaware of the trials I would go through at U.A. How I would have to push harder than anyone else to be on the same level as my classmates. How I would have to tear myself apart and rebuild myself piece by piece. How I would look eldritch horrors given form in the eye and tremble in fear. How I would wrestle with death and hardship on a platform of blood, sweat and tears._

_My fifteenth birthday would be the last day I would feel such careless abandon for a long, long time. For the road ahead of me is a dark forest with untrod paths, a desert where no man has ever set foot, a maze where monsters lurk at every corner. Of course, I had already known it even before that day, but it is only now that I realize just how difficult is the path that I have chosen for myself._

_Despite all of this, I will achieve my goals. I will not falter. I may break and bleed, but that will never stop me. I will rise from the ashes of my failures and fly with the sunlight of victory glinting on my feathers._

_I will not lose._

_**I will become a hero, no matter what.**_

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**Hey guys,**

**So this piece is kind of exploratory as I've never written in the first person before, but at the very least, I'm trying not to make the mistakes that I did with my other piece, 'It's Hero Time!'. For example, my OC, Nashiro Kurogane, is not going to replace Midoriya like the one in IHT did, or any 1-A student for that matter. Second, he isn't going to be overpowered, again like the OC in IHT, and I'm hoping that the fact that he's Quirkless reminds me not to make him overtly powerful. **

**Lastly, this work is also kind of a Self-Insert, in which my good and bad traits are exaggerated. I'm going to try and make him a believable character with his own strengths and flaws, and I'm hoping that it turns out well.**

**If you liked the chapter and want to show your appreciation or provide some constructive criticism, don't forget to favourite, follow, or leave a review! Either way, thank you so much for reading!**


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